squeaks

I went to a jam session the other night. Not to play, just to say hi to a drummer friend of mine. OK, I don't get it. I just don't get it at all. The leader would call a tune, then count it in - at breakneck tempo. The head was barely recognizable. Then the guys would take turns soloing. Their technique was fine. But man, it was all speed and no ideas! The guitarist sounded like he was playing some random scales...the sax player was squeaking and squaking and honking and screeching. The trumpet player...I don't know how to describe it. I don't know much about trumpet playing but I know that most trumpet players compete in reaching for very high notes. This dude obviously had his technique down because he could play those piercing high notes. But it wasn't music!! It was all like wounded elephant grunts and coyote barks and seagull screams, notes running up and down, chasing each other like some derranged dogs chasing their tails. Then the solos were done, the band would run through the unrecognizable head again and on to the next tune, same as the first. I will say this: the rhythm section was very solid. My friend is a superb drummer and the bass player was very good, too.

Now, before I get flamed for this let me say again: I am not calling into question that these dudes could play. What I am saying is that the result was unpleasant and unmusical. I firmly believe in the validity of the old Eddie Condon dictum: "As it enters the ear, does it come in like broken glass or does it come in like honey?" This stuff was definitely broken glass!

In the car, on my way home, I listened to the smoothest, most polished, most profound vocal version of "Round Midnight", sung by Ann Hampton Callaway - with a divine trumpet solo by Wynton Marsalis and it entered my ear like honey and stayed in my soul, soft and soothing like satin.

summertime

Living is too easy, I guess....writing juices all dried up. All I want to do is sit in a cafe, sip an ice capuccino and watch the pretty girls stroll by in their light dresses and flip flops. Work has been steady and somewhat demanding, with six-set Saturdays at the Distillery and a series of new Sunday house gigs beginning.

Richard Whiteman and I were discussing the differences between various kinds of gigs. We agreed that we didn't mind getting paid less for what we percieve to be "career gigs" but would like to get more for "wallpaper" gigs (a term I learned from Jake Chisholm) The problem is, I think, that you never know where the career gigs will materialize. I've had house gigs which I was convinced would lead to great things, yet they fizzled out like flat club soda. And I had low paying gigs which I was loath to do yet they turned out to be pleasant, rewarding and sometimes led to great contacts and fine work in the future.

I have taken to grabbing my digital camera and lugging it with me everywhere. I like to photograph simple, everyday street scenes and people going about their business. The transformation of Toronto at this time of year from a dull, grey burgh to an almost Mediterranian atmosphere, with full patios and overflowing cafes is just amazing. We all know that here the freezing winds are always just around the corner and so we soak up the hot stuff while we can.

Fish are jumping....